SPINDRIFT.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17033, 5 May 1923, Page 6

SPINDRIFT.

Readers are invited to send m original topical paragraph a or verves for the column, which i» a daily feature of the Star.” Accepted contributions should be out out by the writers and forwarded to the Editor, who will remit the amounts payable. “ A farmer has to be patient.” “ Yes,” replied Farmer Wurzel, “but ha overdoes it when he don’t do nothin’ but sit on a fence an’ wait for a land boom.” *•* Father—Don’t you think wa ought to send our little daughter to dancing school, dear? Mother—What! And have her learn a lot of steps that will be out of date befotre she grows up? I should say not 1 A good wife will stick to a rotten husband—because she’s good. Some men are born fools, and most at some time achieve folly. Too much money is a degree worse than poverty. Hokus—Harduppe is such an impractical chap. He is always up in the clouds. Pokus—Maybe he is looking for some of those silver linings. Daughter—l say, dad, you never saw dancing like this back in your days ? Dad—-Yes, I did, once—but the place was raided before 10 o’clock. Stella—l’m to be married next week and I’m terribly nervous. Ella—l suppose there is a chance of a man getting away up to th© last minute. “There’s a collector downstairs to see you, sir.” “ Tell him to call some day when I’m at home. In days of old the weekends were A source of much delight To jaded city-workers, Who toil from morn till night To earn their daily bread and jam Twixt dingy plastered walls, And when the week-end came they all. With bate, and tennis balls Beset the parks and tennis courts To frolic in the sun— A fitting close to week of work, And toil which must be done. Methinks those days are past and gone For now we never see The good old sun on Saturday Nor Sunday too—Ah me I The drenching rain comes pouring down On tennis courts again, The cold wind blows it up against The misty window-pane. And looking out across the park A dismal sight we see— The dead leaves driven by the rain From every single tree. But if the climate’s changing now— Or so it seems to me— It’s time we changed our weekly sports To suit it—don’t you see? We’ll take on water-polo now, And clad in bathing suits Have swimming races through the Square, Erec-jt some water-chutes. Then, having perfected the scheme When sports are well in train, I have no doubt the sun will out And days be hud again. I know a young maiden named Cholmondeley, Whose face is so charming and col- . mondeley, It deprives me of speech When I come within reach I’m afraid I must worship her dolmomdeley. The man in the old felt hat got on to the tramcar, looked quickly round, then took up his position beside me on the platform. He then bent down and squeezed a considerable amount of rainwater out of the upturned hem of his trousers. “ Take my advice, Sonny,” he said ‘‘and keep clear of those lassies with black shiny rnackin • toshes. Three times to-day have I stood next to one of them in the trams. Three times have I felt the cold rain dripping off their coats on to my feet.” 'The tram stopped. A charming little lady with small chic toque and black shiny machintosh stepped on and made for our corner. She had evidently not carried an umbrella, and the rain dripped dripped steadily into the upturned hem of my trousers from off her streaming coat. I looked round for my new acquaintance. He was laboriously but steadily making his way towards the other end of the car. By a morning paper I see that at the Philosophical Institute of Canterbury a paper on “ Plant Succession on Shingle Fans.” Well, I’ve heard of movie fans and football fans, but wjiat the deuce does anyone want to chase shingles for; unless, of course, he is a shingle short. Johnnie and Mary having obtained permission to play churches placed the chairs in rows and commenced the game. Presently mother hearing a lot of whispering remarked: “Children, you shouldn’t whisper so much in church.” “Oh, it’s all right,” said Mary, “ we’re in the choir.” “The young people of to-day,” says a leading minister, “ seem to have no respect for age.” Well, when you come to consider, age seems to have mighty little respect for itself, with all the old women masquerading as young girls and all the old shack cottages masquerading as modern bungalows. life on the farm. Our farmer poet rhapsodises, so Liszt to his lay : Cows are gentle creatures— Gentle as can be. Morning and eve I just receive Milk the calf has c ared to leave. Calves are playful creatures— Playful as can be: But when you sell, The price is—well, If you didn’t laugh you’d have to yell. Pigs are cheerful creatures— Cheerful as can be, For they are sent To pay- the rent, The butcher’s rent’s the one that’s meant. Hens are pleasant creatures, Pleasant as can be. ’Most every day An egg they lay. When eggs are cheap they do not Pay. Farms are happy places— Happy as can be, From morn night In storm or bright I work like hell for sheer delight, And tho’ I growl I do not grieve— To give is better than receive. ► * SINBAD.